


Tea before the Cake

by Cinnamaldeide



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: "For medical purposes", BottomHannibalWeek, Drug Use, ItsStillBeautiful, Last minute therapy, M/M, Mention of dismemberment, Mention of same-sex intercourse, Not Beta Read, Post-Season/Series 03, awkward conversation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-16 13:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11829582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinnamaldeide/pseuds/Cinnamaldeide
Summary: How is Hannibal in bed, Bedelia just asked with incredible nonchalance, considering her missing legs.Written for Hannibal Cre-Ate-Tive’s #ItsStillBeautiful eventLate contribution to Feyestwords and Cannibalcuisine’s #BottomHannibalWeek





	Tea before the Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Before proceeding, keep in mind Bedelia is not exactly treated as the queen of Hannibal’s dankness. Meat is proverbially back on the menu.

Choking on his unsweetened tea, Will considers placing his fragile teacup on the coffee table and cough in honest; instead, he holds his breath and lifts his eyes to the folded hands on Bedelia’s lap.

 _How is Hannibal in bed_ , she just asked with incredible nonchalance, considering her missing legs; heedless of her imminent fate, Bedelia conserves her natural elegance, her regal, marmoreal charm. Her forked tongue, which still manages to make him uncomfortable, when Hannibal isn’t around.

Struggling his shoulders, Will assesses the silver tea tray, searching for the sugar. Hannibal might not possibly have omitted it. “Weren’t you his wife, Bedelia?” Will spots it, but doesn’t attempt to reach for it. “Shouldn’t you be the one to tell me?”

Her lazy smile, unnaturally sharpened with the combination of drugs affecting her system, widens by a fraction, still not affecting her lowered, humid eyes. Her long fingers find with ill-concealed difficulty the cup handle of her dosed serving. “He never made _me_ scream,” she offers, in complete ease despite her own jealousy.

Choking on his still unsweetened tea seems a habit he’ll get accustomed to, in the near future.

Catching the delicious smell of freshly baked cookies, Will briefly recalls his previous conversation with Hannibal; Will insisted on keeping an eye on Bedelia, while he accessed to her kitchen, so Hannibal offered to provide an amicable tea, before proceeding with the preparation of a cake that would include her blood in the recipe, to honour her sublime taste. Biscuits would be served at breakfast, and not before.

“He can be persuasive, when he wants to. Very convincing, even in his most daring suggestions,” she adds, guessing his discomfort, eager to expose its origin. Will swallows his too long brewed tea; it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, as the knowledge that Bedelia heard them the nights prior.

Will figures he can satisfy her masochistic curiosity, considering she’ll not live long enough to tell. “He’s very intense,” he admits.

Bedelia noticeably fights her instinct to cross her absent legs, raising her fine, blond eyebrows in silent invitation to keep talking. He continues, “Hannibal enjoyed life’s pleasures long before he was imprisoned; the psychiatric hospital left him starved for new challenging experiences, as for human touch.” Will had been familiar with the feeling.

“His detention bored him immensely. He tries to make up for the lost time emulating his previous routine: he keeps himself occupied with tasteful amenities, arguably good company and entertaining activities,” Will says, wondering if the subject of their interest is listening to the conversation. “Sex is among them.”

Will reads surprise in her mildly telling features, “Hannibal tends to be _creative_ in bed, to answer your question; he has no such thing as standards.” Recalling his first, ferocious kisses, his tearing hands on cold, salty skin, Will moistens his dry lips. Not even his deadly injuries had lessened his fervour. “He’s aggressive when he’s engaged, he’s demanding when he seeks attention, he’s calm when there’s reason for him to be.” His trust renders him needy, reminds him he can allow himself to be docile. “He’s _not_ always altruistic.”

Hannibal considers Will reliable and Will suspects he’s supposed to deem it an honour, considering Hannibal hardly grants second chances.

Sipping her warm tea, Bedelia balances her arms around her waist, gaining the required stability to incline her head towards her beverage. “You finally peek behind the veil, Will. How does that make you feel?”

“Like a cat keeper, actually,” he confesses, not as fond of felines as he is of dogs; “He’s capricious, he doesn’t content himself with half-heartedly attempts, especially in case of blatant pretences.”  Will had once tried to restrain from moaning with abandon, while rubbing the slippery head of their red, aching erections one against the other; Hannibal had reversed their position and slowed down to an agonizing, melting caress, until Will had ceased muffling his whines. Will has never been vocal in bed, before Hannibal. “He _wants_ me to scream.”

Rattles behind his back informs Will that Hannibal is washing his utensils, shortly he’d join them.

Bedelia shares his knowledge, as the shivers covering her remaining limbs reveal to him, “I imagine he’s been nothing but a gentleman with you, as he must have been with Alana; he doesn’t have to pretend to be with me.” Will sips from his own teacup, remembering he has never understood how to fix a decent infusion. “I can’t say if that’s unfortunate, but I’m not the one missing their legs.”

“Not yet,” she sharply observes.

“Not until Hannibal wants to pleasure himself on my dick so much that he forgets about the headboard and repeatedly hits his head against it, I’d say.”

This seems to have somehow taken her aback. Her perpetually watery eyes widen under her arched eyebrows; her expression shouts scepticism. “You’ll pardon me for not believing you this time, Mr. Graham, as I can’t picture Hannibal prone to acts of submission.”

Frowning, Will points out, “I never mentioned Hannibal submitting to anyone, Dr. Du Maurier,” apart, admittedly, himself, in other contexts. He can almost perceive Hannibal’s annoyance from afar, unless Will’s mirroring his prideful personality. “That would be against his nature.”

Before fulfilling the arduous task of explaining to his far from sober listener the complex dynamics of anal sex, Will glances at the kitchen, hoping to receive assistance, which is not to happening. “Hannibal has never needed to _force_ his way in, from behind or wherever he pleased.”

“I always trusted him, naively, naturally,” Will felt so betrayed, when Hannibal took advance of his faith, “I let him get under my skin, against my better judgement,” he wore no armours, while dealing with him. “He _did_ have to push me for breaking free from my own qualms.”

“And anal sex must have been among them,” Bedelia completes. “Alongside murder and marital infidelity, of course.”

Will relaxes on his comfortable seat, twiddling his callous fingers; involved in the discussion as he is, he stopped fussing with his own cup minutes ago, letting its content cool, “At least, fucking or rimming Hannibal doesn’t count as punishable offence; I should count myself lucky.”

Complaining for Hannibal’s overbearing manner, as he rides Will to reach his own orgasms and denying blinding climaxes to his exhausted partner, in order to prolong their bliss until sweat cools and kisses heal instead of hurting, has never crossed Will’s mind.

Hannibal’s request to partake in penetrative same-sex intercourse, with himself on the receiving end, had initially perplexed Will. His desire to be filled by his cock, to surround it with his flesh, to intertwine their bodies despite Will’s almost absent practice in the field. To come apart under Will’s hands, as Will promised him a lifetime ago.

Once Will had overcome his own dispassionate insecurities, Hannibal had demonstrated him how powerfully prostate stimulation could enthral his senses, and he felt oddly proud for offering just as much pleasure in return.

“Submission is far from what Hannibal experiences, even if I don’t think he’d mind being ordered around, from time to time.” Chuckles sounds in the corridor, as Hannibal appears in his line of sight; his empathic condition not always reflected such satisfaction in his prior partners, outside as much as inside his bed.

In her disconcert, Bedelia’s breath becomes slightly laboured; frames of Hannibal and Will’s intimate encounters inevitably form in her frontal lobe, inhibited by the drugs Hannibal insists on administering her _for medical purposes_ , combined with previously stored auditory contributions. Will can’t be sure, but she might be enjoying her fantasies.

“Done with your pastries?” teases Will, as a warm hand strokes his uninjured shoulders in an affectionate, familiar caress.

“The cake will take a while to cook, considering blood needs to reach a different temperature to lose the anticoagulant I added in its preparation,” says Hannibal, comfortably sitting in a spare chair; “We could use the time, if you like.”

“Are you shamelessly proposing to make out in front of our host?” Will smirks, before correcting himself, “-guest?” not even sure where he stands between the two categories. The pleasant, dangerous smile he receives enlightens him about each and every way one or both of them would be bent on the sofa where Bedelia sits.

His glaze zeroes to her, while she admires their wordless exchange, before he prompts, “This is not that kind of party, I’m afraid.” Will doesn’t catch the reference, yet the meaning mightn’t be clearer. His red ears testify his state of mind, slowly reaching the temperature of his tepid, mouth-puckering tea.

Inclining her head to shift a bouncy lock of her shiny blond hair, Bedelia regains her composure, electing to fall down with her hardly-won respect intact, “You seemed eager to share, at Anthony’s request.” She probably knows she’ll be kept alive longer, if she provides for an entertaining toy. Hannibal likes to play. Will swears Hannibal might grab his groin here and now, to see how she would react, to discover how Will deals with third parties involved in their sexual activities; he’s just too considerate to both of them, at least for the moment.

Mindless of her superior attitude, he ponders on her observation, evaluating events to which Will has no access, much to his chagrin, and Will feels his hand shifting from his shoulder to the front of his shirt, reaching for his chest, nuzzling against his abdominal scar.

“I’m sorry Bedelia. I might have accepted to share you,” Hannibal looks away, meeting Will’s inquisitive glance, before continuing with his most maudlin tone, as sweet, delicious notes of cinnamon and orange pervade his nostrils from the kitchen, “I’m not going to share him.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have been so conflicted, when I came home, after two weeks far from technology, and discover there has been an extention for the #BottomHannibalDay; I started writing immediately. I still had two days. At page two I realise I could be working on something to present at [Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive](http://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/post/163534909454/celebrate-itsstillbeautiful-with-us-from-august)’s #ItsStillBeautiful challenge.  
> I choose to present this work to the second initiative, but it originally was for the #BottomHannibalWeek, for [Cannibalcuisine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalcuisine) and [Feyestwords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/feyestwords). I then proceeded to write a [drabble](https://cinnamaldeide.tumblr.com/post/164217327784/you-should-probably-know-i-favour-healthy-sexual), because inspiration strangely hit me again. Thank you, if you decide to drop by and take a rapid look at that one too, and thanks also for reading this longer one here, by the way.


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